


An Exchange

by jadedragonfly



Category: The West Wing
Genre: (very subtle), Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, is this fandom alive, this is me putting an interpretation of that one diary scene to metaphorical paper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 04:04:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19985797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadedragonfly/pseuds/jadedragonfly
Summary: She looks down at her hands as Josh threatens Cliff, as the wind shifts her hair against her neck, as the journal is held out and her thoughts are moved from hand to hand, an exchange, of something that used to be hers alone, between two people not fifteen feet from where she sits, hands clasped, everything dissolving from her and leaving her feeling numb in the cold night air.





	An Exchange

**Author's Note:**

> A writing of that last scene in War Crimes

It's a brisk night. It was sprinkling just a few minutes ago, drops sliding off Donna's hair. It had been raining pretty hard back at the White House, and she knows it probably still is and marvels at the fact that the weather can be so different from one place to the other, even though both are quite close to each other.

Footsteps interrupt these thoughts, though they were barely there in the first place, mundane as they were; focusing her mind on such simple things like the weather gives her some feeling of control, and it's a practice she's had since she started working for Josh. Think about something small. That way you don't have to worry about the things that are big.

But she's always been a worrier. This comes back at her full force as Cliff approaches. The lights behind the fountain illuminate the left side of his body, and they string a glow around the outline of Josh as he leans forward. She shoves her worry back again. _Control._ The water is captivating, she thinks instead, the way it tumbles, in arcs, into itself.

Josh has stood. Cliff didn't come all the way to their bench; he paused before the fountain and now her boss is going to meet him. She instinctively and without realization reaches to rub her fingers across the binding of her journal before she becomes aware she's doing it; the action is fruitless anyway-- she had handed it to Josh just a minute ago. And it's what he carries now.

It was such a stupid mistake. Saying no had been easy, though. And she had meant it honestly at first, the question slipping past her like the raindrops on her hair.

When she was in junior high, she and her friends had lived for the rare trips to the mall, saving their money to splurge on something together, enjoying not having to think about school and the latest assignment or boys who teased them and expected a date in return or how harsh the newest substitute for Mrs. Donne might be or anything else for once. And one trip, they all got matching diaries. Pink and purple and blue and red, with the same sparkly lettering on the front. She had used that diary for almost a year before it all filled up.

And now, she keeps a journal. She writes her thoughts about the day, and uses a special pen to do it, and everything. But diaries are for writing gossip and such, diaries are for closing tight with a giggle and only sharing with your closest friends, diaries are--

She keeps a journal. She writes her thoughts about the day, all the things she hadn't allowed herself to think at all before she had opened the worn pages at home at two in the morning after just getting off work; she writes about how Josh makes her feel stupid and she writes about feeling stupid because Josh makes her feel stupid because at least he's better than her ex-boyfriend and she writes about wondering if Josh is actually any better than her ex-boyfriend, and she writes about how absolutely terrible government can be sometimes and how pointless it seems (and how pointless the world seems, on especially bad days), and she writes about how she can't see Cliff any more for reasons that are just as pointless and she writes about how he treats her with respect all the time and how that gave her a good mood for a few days, and she writes about not feeling in control, and she writes to feel in control.

And she thinks of it as a journal. That's all.

And then it felt too weird to go back and say, _Sorry, I lied, I meant yes I do keep a-- do you ask men staffers this question? Yes, I keep a diary--_

It was a such a stupid mistake.

Cliff comes up to meet Josh, and Donna turns her head straight forward, looks into the blandness and dark of the night, starts feeling tears rise up before she forces her thoughts to what type of bush that one over to the right might be. _Control, Donna._

Her ex-boyfriend had mostly always been in control. It wasn't a bad thing, really; he always chose what movies they went to see, and what she would cook for dinner, and when he felt like kissing her or going farther, and most everything else, and she hadn't thought it was a bad thing. They broke up and she sat at home by herself in her fuzzy pj's and wondered what movie she wanted to watch and found she didn't have an answer, and when they got back together again he gave her the answers and she was fine with that.

And then when they broke up again, she went back to her job as Josh Lyman's assistant, went back to that feeling of needing to be in control of _everything_ at work and not quite being sure of what her own opinions were at home. But when things started to overwhelm her, she wrote in her journal, or when she didn't have it nearby she channeled her thoughts to simple things she could make sense of, and it was a system that worked.

She sort of feels, now-- this is stupid really, but-- she sort of feels like she'll be out of control forever now. Like there was only that journal, her thoughts, and Josh Lyman's phone calls that she was ever really in charge of, and then who is she kidding her mind always goes back to that worrying state no matter how much she thinks of what the weather is outside that day or what type of bushes might be found in the gardens of the White House and in random parks she and Josh sit in at night to hand over personal items to people she had thought respected her-- well, there her thoughts go again, see, the point is she can pretend but she never really had those under control in the first place. And she could act in charge all she wanted at work, but at the end of the day it was Josh yelling at her to do this and that, and to pick up the damn phone even though she had been going to do it anyway, Josh, but it all just ends up with her feeling a tiny bit undone by the time the lights in the office are turned out and her hands are driving her home on autopilot, okay?

But she had the journal to go home to, to spill her undone thoughts on its pages, and now Josh is telling Cliff what to do with that journal.

Her mind gets stuck on that. That simple fact in this mess of a situation. Right now, her boss is telling her former-- what? Date? ...Friend? what to do with her most personal item.

Something is trying to crawl up her throat, some tendril of sickening worry, some sort of powerless sob. Because she does feel powerless. She looks down at her hands as Josh threatens Cliff, as the wind shifts her hair against her neck, as the journal is held out after Cliff says _Thank you_ and her thoughts are moved from hand to hand, an exchange, of something that used to be hers alone, between two people not fifteen feet from where she sits, hands clasped, everything dissolving from her and leaving her feeling numb in the cold night air.

Donna stares forward again, then back at her hands, as Josh comes back to sit next to her, letting out a sigh and a comment about the cold, and she turns to look at him, thinking for a stupid second that he is aware of and referring to the cold sense of powerlessness that just crawled up her spine. But it's just a statement about the brisk night air, and he puts an arm against her back and tells her, _It's gonna be fine,_ and she closes her eyes against the sadness of the world and the anger towards pointless words and the shiver of his hand, meant to be comforting, but only reassuring her of the fact that he is the one in charge of this situation and she is not, and nothing else.

And they both face forward and she presses her arms closer to herself as the wind twirls past them, and she thinks maybe it's an azalea bush. The one over to the right.

And then she thinks, _Damn it, damn this_.

She would wonder, sitting there in the brisk, bland night, when she might feel in control again, but she's too tired of the day, the people, the world, to bother.  



End file.
